I Call it: My Cinram Misadventure

So I was at work, minding my own business, being busy busy busy, doing my thangy-thang.

I squatted down to get a box from the lower half of Level 02, and suddenly I feel what seems to me like my pants pulling tight on my behind.  I was right, all right.  So tight in fact that THEY SPLIT!  I had a nice five-inch tear in the back of one of two favorite pairs of pants I owned, my pink corduroys.  I was frantically looking around to see who was nearby.  Luckily, there was only one other female on Level 02.  Unluckily, however, there was a man working directly below me on Level 01.  The modules are comprised of bars and metal grates for flooring, so there is no such thing as hiding in the module.  I was nearly done working on my wave, so I finished up the last four labels and started looking around.

I had to take serious inventory of my options:  one, I could reach back and hold my pants together with my hand, or two, I could grab a box and hold it on my ass.

I chose option number two, which was merely the lesser of two evils.  Why, oh why, couldn't I have had a sweater on to wrap around my waist?

To answer the unasked question, I was not wearing a thong.  I don't wear thongs (unless I lose a bet with Clint, which has happened once or twice).  I was, however, wearing something called a "cheekie," which earns its name from baring the better half of . . . you guessed it, the cheek of one's bum.

Damn me and my fascination with cute, but revealing, underwear.

So I walked across the bridge from the 4000 Module to the 4001 Module, which was closer to the front and my beloved jacket.  Sometimes there are people downstairs milling about, while other times it's nearly empty.  I was hoping to find one of those nearly empty moments, but no, I couldn't seem to catch a break.  I went down when about ten or twelve other people were downstairs getting new waves, carrying this box on my derrier, already turning a lovely shade of red.

Of course, the one person who wouldn't be down there is Jeff, the team lead on D Team.  No, instead, Jeremy, my personal team lead, the team lead on B Team, was there.  Jeremy and I are more familiar and are used to cracking jokes on one another, so I knew Jeff would be the more discreet of the two.

I told you I couldn't catch a break already, right?

And it's not like we could have a female team lead, at least.  And the supervisor on D Team is male, whereas on my team we have a female supervisor.

Great.

So I'm explaining to Jeremy what happened when Jeff shows up (about damn time, but a day late and a dollar short, thanks), who says, "Well, maybe Alan will let you go home and come back without an occurrence."

Damnit, I live thirty-five to forty-five minutes away, and these guys want me to come back.  It's a catch-22.  I could come back and face all the humiliation, or I could take an occurrence.

Wonderful.  Getting better all the time.

I tell them, in a bit of a disgruntled manner, that I will return.

So I back up to the cabinet where my jacket is (cue heavenly intonation here) and quickly drop the box and put it on, then make a bee-line for the door.  Of course, this is the day everyone decides they need to talk to me on my way out, so it took me almost fifteen minutes to get from the time clock to the front door.

At this point all I'm praying for is a female security guard to wand me on the way out.

I did mention that I couldn't catch a break?

No, I had to ask the male security guard to bring a female up front to wand me.

"Why?" he wants to know.

Now, I've been getting redder and redder this whole time, but at this point I am about to turn purple.  Still, I explain the situation to him, and that lovely, lovely man didn't even crack a smile.  He merely called a female security guard to the front, while I got to explain my situation for about the third time.

Needless to say, it was cold outside.  Very, very cold.  And I wasn't wearing my trench coat.

When I got home, Clint asks, "What are you doing home?"  I'm pretty tired of telling this story at this point, short though it is to explain, so I just turn around, bend over slightly, and wave my posterior back and forth.  FINALLY!  Someone I can SHOW!

When I got back Corey jokingly asked what made me special enough to go home for a booty call.  Jeremy, that hateful man, said that yeah, basically, I *did* go home for a booty call.

Grrrrrr.

So a lot of jokes were made about that, especially when it "leaked" about what happened.

Later my coworker Patches asked why I left, and when I told her what happened, she said, "I thought you had a funny look on your face when you came downstairs."

I thought to myself, what about the funny box on my ass?  And I said, "Yes, I call it, 'Mortification,'" using the little hand motion as if I could see the word in the air.

Later some jokes were made about vibrators and the like, all stemming from Corey and Jeremy's joking about booty calls.  But I lived through it.

Yes, I want a damn cookie.

Actually, I want the whole damn bag.

It's more than a week later, and I'm still wondering if they're ever going to let me live it down.  I'm thinking--not bloody likely.

-Ave